Washed Out Queens
by ncfan
Summary: They're more alike than Cornelia knows.


I own nothing.

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><p>Her idol repairs baby clothes herself, with a needle, thread and an unaffected smile. They sit, side by side on the low garden wall, as Lelouch and Euphemia chase each other around among the exotic plants and the fragrant roses and Nunnally sits in her baby chair, babbling senselessly to herself and reaching fruitlessly towards the dappled wings of a butterfly.<p>

There are few who dare to approach Marianne and Cornelia when they are together, not out of fear so much as some sense of respect or subliminal awe. Despite the youth of the latter and the commoner upbringing of the former, there is no denying that both are formidable women. Striking personalities in both, though on first glance Cornelia is too brusque and Marianne too unflappably sweet.

Today, a teenaged Cornelia frowns slightly as she watches Marianne put her needle through the rose pink satin of Nunnally's torn dress. She herself has never picked up a needle in her life, having hands that don't possess the sort of spirit needed to put the implements of sewing to good use. Even at her age, Cornelia knows her hands to be fashioned for the art of war. That, and nothing more.

Eventually, Marianne has to notice her staring, and turns her deep blue eyes to Cornelia's face, gracing her step-daughter with an inviting smile. "Were you going to ask me something, Cornelia?"

Cornelia tilts her chin up to hide any hint of discomfort, meeting Marianne's eyes squarely. "Lady Marianne, why do you fix Nunnally's clothes yourself instead of giving them to your seamstress?"

A soft laugh is Marianne's immediate answer. Cornelia's frown deepens a little to be laughed at, as she starts to suspect that she is being mocked; her ego doesn't stand well for mockery, even gentle mockery by Marianne. Lelouch, hearing his mother laugh, stops and pauses for a moment, back straight and face serious, but starts running again when Euphemia barrels into him and shrieks, "Tag! You're it!"

Marianne puts the needle down and spreads her daughter's dress across her lap. "I suppose I could do that. It certainly wouldn't take as long to give Nunnally's dress to a seamstress with a sewing machine, and the stitches would be more even and less apparent. But as a mother, small things count." Marianne's eyes glaze over. "Small things count a great deal," she mutters to herself, going back to craning her head over her sewing. Curtains of inky black hair hide her face from the young princess.

In her blunt, literal nature, Cornelia knows that there is something deeper there than what Marianne is saying, but doesn't know how to identify it, doesn't know what she's looking at. Cornelia is intelligent but she isn't good with metaphors and deeper meaning; she won't be in adulthood, and she isn't now at fourteen. Marianne's façade is impenetrable; Cornelia knows there's something underneath, but all she can see is the gently smiling face.

What first engendered admiration in Cornelia as far as Marianne concerns is the tales of her exploits with a Knightmare. Former Knight of Six, terrifying in her Ganymede, and never, not once, did she ever lose that gentle smile. Cornelia looked at the woman across the hall, the one everyone seemed to scorn, and thought that she wanted to be like that. She wanted the power, the skill, the ability to make enemies quake in fear. She wanted to be invincible like her, to be one who had the power to change things.

Of course, Cornelia has entirely too much pride to ever tell Marianne this, but deep down, she suspects that Marianne already knows. Marianne is so discerning, her eyes so piercing, that Cornelia doesn't know how her step-mother could _not _know how she feels.

From afar, Marianne vi Britannia is an object of Cornelia's quiet admiration, and up close she is the same, but different in that up close, Cornelia is forced to see her enigmatic nature as well.

Marianne always smiles. It intrigues some and unnerves others; puts some at ease and leaves others with their hackles raised. There's something a touch brittle and glassy in her smile, in the way it never wavers, never falters, never slips and never cracks. Others might shudder at its sight but Cornelia can only think about how much she wishes _she _could hide her anger, her disgust, her sadness and her hatred behind a smile. It would be nice to be able to walk into a room and not have everyone immediately know what's on her mind, for once.

_How easy she makes it look_, Cornelia marvels whenever she happens to see Marianne interacting with her children. Lelouch accedes to his mother's wishes without resentment or even the slightest trace of disobedience; Nunnally never cries when she is in her mother's arms. Cornelia is not a girl with a great deal of maternal instinct; in fact, there is no maternal instinct within her at all. She has no interest in ever having children; yes, it is supposedly the duty of an Imperial Princess to make politically advantageous marriages and have politically advantageous children, but Cornelia is hardly the Emperor's only daughter and she has plenty of sisters who will no doubt jump at the opportunity to win their father's favor by providing him with politically advantageous grandchildren. _Let them have it and leave me out of it. _Having children is a hassle, a burden, but Marianne just makes it look so _easy._ Cornelia doesn't know how she manages it.

And now this. Apparently Marianne is pilot, great dissembler, mother and seamstress, and Cornelia feels just a touch inadequate next to her. She'll catch up, Cornelia tells herself. She'll catch up, and be Lady Marianne's equal.

Cornelia is more like Marianne than she knows, and will grow to be much like her in adulthood. Fractured creatures, the pale, washed-out mockeries of human beings. Queenly, but hollow, with poisonous smiles and hands that deal out death from the cockpit of a Knightmare. Capable both of kindness and great cruelty, alluring and terrifying to look on. The only difference is that Cornelia lacks Marianne's capacity for conspiracy and deception—she is straightforward, makes all her points with brute force.

Cornelia is more like her idol than she knows, and the weight of similarities would unnerve her if she ever knew. Holding up a mirror against her own skin would show her both her own ugliness and Marianne's, and she would reject it.

But Cornelia does not know. Cornelia adores Marianne in her fierce, adolescent, low-key (ego rears its head again) way, and does not understand the hints of a deeper, falser spirit beneath the smile that she sees. She watches her sew, needle through rose pink satin, and just tries to understand.

"Speaking of clothes—" Marianne lifts her head and looks her stepdaughter over critically "—how much longer are you and Euphemia going to be wearing mourning clothes, Cornelia?"

By mourning clothes, Marianne means what Cornelia and her sister have been wearing since their mother passed a few months ago. The rest of the royal family wore black to the funeral only, but up until recently black has been all Cornelia and Euphemia have worn—they've recently downgraded to coal gray. Cornelia stares down at her gray clothes, and resisting the urge to shrug, responds, "As long as we need to. Why do you ask?"

Marianne smirks and pats her cheek. "Gray washes you out. Euphemia too, but you especially. You should wear brighter colors." Cornelia blushes slightly despite herself, and Marianne's voice trills into laughter again.

They both should, but it wouldn't do anything to hide their true natures.

The nature of a yawning beast can not be hidden by fine clothes or coiffed hair or gentle smiles. It will shine through forever.


End file.
